


Polly

by clairedelalunex



Series: Inevitability [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John Needs A Hug, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 07:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairedelalunex/pseuds/clairedelalunex
Summary: It's taken me so long to get back to this and for that I deeply apologise but my own mental health has been in shambles and I have spent quiet a lot of time either in hospital or far too depressed to even talk let alone type. I'm still a hot mess but hey that ain't changing anytime soon.I hope you enjoy!





	Polly

**Author's Note:**

> It's taken me so long to get back to this and for that I deeply apologise but my own mental health has been in shambles and I have spent quiet a lot of time either in hospital or far too depressed to even talk let alone type. I'm still a hot mess but hey that ain't changing anytime soon.  
> I hope you enjoy!

**Polly**

_Want some help, please myself_  
Got some rope, have been told  
Promise you, have been true  
Let me take a ride, cut yourself  
Want some help, please myself

Things weren’t okay. They just weren’t and for the life of him John couldn’t convince himself that it was okay to be that way and, reaching out to ask for some extra help was the right thing to do. It wasn’t showing weakness, everyone experienced a bump in the road in their recovery. He was no exception that.

But Sherlock was back in the hospital again, John had come home from visiting his father in the city for a coffee and found his boyfriend of two years unconscious and unresponsive on their kitchen floor. He had been so cold and still John had feared the worst when he had dropped down to his knees harshly, grasping a pale wrist and frantically feeling for a weak and irregular pulse.

Since they had started at university one year ago and John had agreed to go in to a medical degree he had more understanding then he was comfortable with surrounding Sherlock’s heart failure. He was well aware of Sherlock’s declining health, rapidly moving downhill right in front of John’s eyes. That was one of the reasons John had left the house that morning to see his dad, they had been fighting, something that was becoming regular for them.

John was still having nightmares of the car accident, he got grumpy when it rained and his scars flared up, he wouldn’t accept any comfort from Sherlock at all and ended up lashing out at him. Sherlock wasn’t making it any easier on either of them too though; he had hit a plateau with his weight gain and refused to go another pound up despite his remaining low body weight. He also wouldn’t address his obviously failing health. No matter what John said to him, Sherlock was adamantly in denial he was getting worse instead of better.

So there was a lot of guilt surrounding John right now that he had left his ailing lover alone to almost die on their cold kitchen tiles while he blew off steam with his father. And then the nightmares that endlessly plagued him in the empty bed, devoid of the warmth and comfort of Sherlock’s close embrace.  Stress surrounding his first round of exams, missed classes, insomnia and the impending exhaustion that came with it. He was irritable and honestly just didn’t want to be around to deal with it all, which should have set the warning bells off in his head straight away, but he was too tired and worn out to care about that train of thought.

It wasn’t until he was sitting alone in the bathroom, perspiring with a scalpel stolen from a lab in a shaky hand and his wrist exposed did he stop and realise what was happening. When his phone rang John jumped a mile and dropped the blade with a little clatter against the tiles. It echoed ominously and a stray tear slipped down his cheek, the ringtone tapering off before starting again a few moments later. It could be the hospital, a change in Sherlock’s condition, but he was too filled with shame over what he had been about to do that he couldn’t bring himself to answer. Odds were as soon as he spoke the dam would break on the tears.

At least he knew with some certainty this wasn’t a suicide attempt, he just wanted the sting of the pain, sharp and alarming to break through the dark monotony of his thoughts. He had done this before, more often then he cared to admit in the past year. Sherlock had been to unwell to notice, and that may have been one of the defining factors in why he was doing this (pathetic, he knew) but his head had steadily fallen in to a dark place.

When his phone rang for the third time he huffed, and leaned over to pick up; ‘Hello?’ He rasped, coughing awkwardly to clear his thick throat.

‘Hello John, I hope I haven’t caught you at an _inopportune_ moment.’ Mycroft. John rolled his eyes to the dark room, sighing and shifting back against the bathtub.

‘What do you want Mycroft?’ He asked, rubbing a hand against his brow. He really didn’t have time for any of this; he should be collecting his homework and heading to see Sherlock. Not sitting in a poorly lit bathroom, admitting defeat and hurting him.

‘I have been knocking on the door for the past five minutes, I know how you and Sherlock feel about me letting myself in to your space, but if you hadn’t answered I was going to take the liberty of letting myself in regardless, unless you want to come answer the door like a decent human being?’

John hung up the phone, rolled down the sleeve of his sweater and pulled the bathroom door shut behind him, trotting to let his lovers meddling older brother in to their messy little flat.

‘You know Sherlock isn’t here right, the hospital must have called you?’ John asked, moving towards the kitchen to pop the kettle on. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mycroft, but he still believed in being hospitable to house guests. His mother would be rolling in her grave if he was rude to the older man. ‘Or did you come here to spy on me?’

Mycroft settled on one of the rickety chairs around the kitchen table, which was scattered with an assortment of different text books and chemistry equipment, exactly how Sherlock had left it before his admission to the hospital. John hadn’t had the heart or the guts to move it; Sherlock was so peculiar about his work after all.

‘I was merely concerned for your wellbeing, and came to let you know that I have taken the liberty of scheduling you in for an appointment with Gregory tomorrow after your classes. You’ve been looking a little worn around the edges, and your wellbeing heavily impacts on that of my brothers.’ Mycroft accepted the tea cup and biscuits John handed him, watching him as he took the only other seat at the table.

‘I didn’t know the two of you were on a first name basis now.’ John commented, taking a sip of his own tea, wrapping a shaking hand around the warm mug. ‘Good to know you’re still interfering with our lives in the background.’

‘Well the two of you obviously seem to have very little regard for yourselves.’ Mycroft gave him an appraising look over his mug. ‘How long have you been cutting yourself?’

John choked on his tea, sputtering as he put the mug down. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He asked, affronted at the older man’s blatant accusation.

‘Don’t play stupid with me John, my brother may not be at top speed right now but I however am as astute as ever in my observations, I noticed the markings on your wrists yesterday when we passed in the hospital corridors, you had your sleeves rolled up. I had expected this type of behaviour from my brother, but I am quite surprised you have fallen in to that very same trap John, I am merely concerned.’ Mycroft took a dainty bite of his hob-nob. ‘Gregory is expecting you at four o’clock tomorrow at his new private practice.’ He withdraws a card from his pocket and slid it across the table to John, who took it apprehensively.

He was aware that Lestrade had left the public ward to branch out privately. The business card was fancy and gilded, John suspected Mycroft had a role to play in it; it spoke of the older man’s propensity for the lavish. ‘Thanks.’ He mumbled, pocketing it. ‘Listen; I know I probably don’t need to say this but could this uh, stay between us? Sherlock isn’t well and I don’t want him stressing over me right now.’

Mycroft gave him a long look, considering him. John felt like squirming under the scrutiny but kept his back straight. Sherlock’s older brother had been interfering (as Sherlock put it) in their lives from the get go in their relationship, while John didn’t always agree with the meddling he knew when to be appreciative of the help given, like now, with the appointment he didn’t have the courage to make himself. Mycroft surveyed him for a moment longer and then looked away.

‘It will stay between us, but know that when Sherlock regains his strength again the scarring won’t go unnoticed and there will be questions.’ With that Mycroft placed his tea cup down and stood up, ‘would you mind if I made use of the bathroom before I leave?’ John just nodded morosely and sipped his tea, Mycroft was right. Sherlock would get well again and notice and John had nobody to thank for the ensuing fight that would follow but himself.

Shortly after Mycroft had left, John sighed and took the cups to the sink and ran water in them before pulling out his phone and texting Sherlock; _up for a visit? JW_. While he waited for a reply he moved back to the bathroom, he wasn’t surprised to find the scalpel was gone. Mycroft never asked to use their bathroom. His phone beeped; _please, please bring me coffee, these people are barbarians SH._

Smirking, John pocketed the device and shrugged in to his jacket, and headed out the door.

Things weren’t okay, they were far from it. But he had people watching his back now when he couldn’t and that made him feel more comfortable in his own head, that he had people on his side now.


End file.
